


A matter of life and death

by asuralucier



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Dancing, First Kiss, Humour, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:02:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24722011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: Text received 13:09 Help me -SHText received 13:09 Please -SHText received 13:10 You know I wouldn’t ask unless it was urgent -SHText received 13:10 A MATTER OF LIFE AND DEATH -SHText received 13:11 GREG -SH(Basically the start of “The Sign of Three” but Greg gets roped into dancing. The snogging is just a bonus.)
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 7
Kudos: 64
Collections: Little Black Dress Exchange 2020





	A matter of life and death

As Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade led a speedy cavalry to 221B Baker Street, he could feel his chest tying itself up in knots. It wasn’t an unusual feeling given what he did for a living, but when it came down to it, this was worse than all the nightmares he’d ever had about this particular situation. So, it wasn’t as if he didn’t get practice where he needed it. Greg drove with one eye on the road, just about, and he kept his other eye on his mobile, dreading the next text, but then, also lack of one. 

_Text received 13:09 Help me -SH_

_Text received 13:09 Please -SH_

_Text received 13:10 You know I wouldn’t ask unless it was urgent -SH_

_Text received 13:10 A MATTER OF LIFE AND DEATH -SH_

_Text received 13:11 GREG -SH_

Greg tried to look on the bright side. All things considered, Sherlock’s chances for survival were good - great, even. The fleet of cars and the team of AFOs that he’d managed to scrape together last minute was making great time by running every red light there was this side of Westminster. At this rate, the Yard was going to storm Baker Street in less than two minutes. 

Excepting everything else, Sherlock was the smartest bloke Greg knew, and most of the time Greg wasn’t too happy about it. 

But now he hoped it would be enough.

Greg tightened his hands on the wheel and hoped against hope, that he was going to make it in time. 

A flustered Mrs. Hudson greeted them in the hallway. “Well,” she said, pressing a hand to her forehead, “my goodness. I do feel a bit faint. Inspector, I know Sherlock said he was expecting you at _once_ , but I didn’t know this meant you were bringing half the Yard and _guns_ with you...” 

Clearly, Mrs. Hudson was distraught and needed a minute to collect herself. Greg couldn’t exactly blame the poor woman. 

Greg strode over to her and tried to keep his agitation and worry to a minimum. A wordless nod to Donovan was all it took for her to take the hint, ordering the rest of the AFOs upstairs. The team trooped on up and again, Greg looked on the bright side, at least the men going up the stairs had guns. It’d put them on an even keel. 

“Mrs. Hudson,” Greg said, barely containing himself, “what _happened_? Are you injured? Can you tell me anything about the other people in the flat?” _Where’s Sherlock?_ was a question that Greg almost couldn’t bear to ask. The flat was entirely too quiet, given the emergency at hand. But thinking back on it, Greg was pretty johnny on the spot about spotting getaway vehicles and he hadn’t seen anything that passed muster on the way here. 

“Oh, for the love of—!” Donovan’s voice rang out from upstairs, irritation strung clearly through every syllable. “Sir? You might want to uh, come upstairs.” 

Before Greg Lestrade could make a good go of punching Sherlock stupid Holmes in his stupid (in tact) face, his body disobeyed every sensible nerve in his brain and pulled the other man towards him for a hug instead. 

Someone ventured. “Oh.” 

Donovan said, “Well. So that’s how it is.” She didn’t exactly sound surprised, and Greg tried not to think about just how much explaining he had to do to her and everyone else in the room. 

Sherlock, the man of the bloody hour, said nothing. He stood rooted to the spot, as if Greg had him in a stranglehold. After a few long seconds had gone, Greg felt Sherlock inhale and a hand patted him on the small of his back. 

“Mrs. Hudson’s got a bad leg. Or that’s what she says,” Sherlock said, “so she won’t dance with me.” 

Greg’s relief over Sherlock’s not been kidnapped was fast spinning down the proverbial drain. He was going to be up to his knees in paperwork that came with wrongly deploying AFOs. Christ’s sake. 

“...I’m sorry, what did you just say?” 

“You didn’t have to take me so literally, Inspector.” Sherlocked patted him one more time on the back. It was only after that, that Greg gathered enough of himself to step away, just in time to catch Sherlock’s smirk. “But it _is_ a matter of life and death. I don’t have personal experience, but nobody wants to be caught with their pants down on their wedding day. It’s once in a lifetime, Inspector! Don’t you understand?”

“I’m sorry, what?” Greg said again. And then when someone coughed behind him, he remembered where he was, or rather, who was present. “Just—everyone _out_! Wasn’t there a bank robbery you lot should be attending?” 

After bravely not laughing at the Detective Inspector’s _perfectly understandable_ mistake, and a halfhearted apology about her bum leg (“When you get to my age, dear, you’ll know.”) Mrs Hudson left Greg and Sherlock alone with a cup of tea. 

Truth be told, Greg should really be seeing to that bank robbery. They’d been after the gang for months. But there was that other part of him that couldn’t bear the thought of Donovan (or someone else) talking his ear off about abandoning his post _et cetera_. 

“Traditionally, the wedding couple chooses their own first dance,” Greg said, rubbing a hand over his tired eyes. “Should I be asking why you’re involved?” 

“John and Mary want me involved,” Sherlock said. 

Greg mumbled into the top of his teacup, “Right.” Before taking a sip, he put the cup down again and stood up. His heart had slowed down to a manageable rate, given time but his thoughts were still jumbled up. It was all Sherlock’s damn fault. And for once, Greg was going to have his say. 

“You know, I thought you were dead. Or kidnapped.” 

“I was texting you.” Sherlock pointed out. “Even if my so-called kidnappers had taken my mobile, they couldn’t have duplicated my syntax so easily. You’d know if it wasn’t me.” 

Greg had to concede that point. Still. “I have nightmares about this.” 

“About sitting in my apartment? You wound me, Inspector.” Sherlock’s mouth lifted at one side, and despite himself, Greg let himself look. “But I suppose I understand where you’re coming from, too. I mean, look at the state of this place.” He gestured grandly, knocking some loose papers with his arm.

Greg sighed. “Shove off, you know what I mean. You couldn’t have found anyone else who’d want to dance with you.” 

Sherlock looked at him, his gaze deadly serious. “Or maybe I wanted to dance with you, Greg.” 

Greg said, “Oh.” 

Greg Lestrade fancied himself not a bad dancer. It wasn’t something he'd broadcast at the office or indeed, anywhere _else_ but he liked a good boogie when he’d had a couple pints. It didn’t happen often. 

Somehow, the idea of Sherlock choreographing a wedding dance was just as ludicrous as Greg liking a boogie, but it was apparently possible and apparently, it was happening. The music was light and Beethovenesque, and a little bit schmaltzy. 

“It’s a _wedding_ , Inspector. Not the Royal Albert Hall.” Sherlock returned, spinning Greg neatly around to the right. 

Greg rolled his eyes. “And you’re such an expert on weddings, are you?” 

Sherlock shrugged. “I have some expertise on the human condition. The worst of it on display at weddings.” 

Greg shuddered to think of Sherlock having attended more than one wedding in his lifetime. He was just about to open his mouth to say so, when a particularly strident chord struck in the music and he felt himself being pressed right up against Sherlock. Now, there was barely an inch of air between them, and Greg could tell that Sherlock had recently eaten something sweet. Maybe a chocolate digestive. 

“Anyway, I thought they’d kiss here. A triumphant moment. We took a long time getting here, or something like it.” 

“This is very detailed choreography,” Greg said, “did you want to rehearse that, too?” 

“Well, you did think I was dead.” Sherlock reminded him with a raised eyebrow. “I once read about this couple who’d each chipped their tooth because neither of them had practiced.” 

“Speak for yourself,” Greg said. This wasn’t the only thing he wanted to say, but then Sherlock leaned forward just that inch, and somehow, kissing Sherlock Holmes as part of some dance choreography was a triumph all of its own. 

After the schmaltzy (“it’s not _schmaltzy_ , it’s fit for John’s wedding. Oh all right, suppose it is a bit.”) music finally came to a stop for the fifth time, Sherlock let go of Greg and looked him up and down, apparently satisfied with the result. 

“Well,” said Greg, reaching for his jacket, which was hung over the back of a chair. “Now that that’s over with, I’m going to go get a pint.” It wasn’t five o’ clock yet, but Greg thought he deserved it, all things considered. Oh, and also there was the whole thing where he’d just stormed Baker Street and snogged Sherlock Holmes. 

All in a day’s work. 

Greg stopped himself in mid-shrug and looked over at Sherlock. “Do you want to come for one? The football should be on by now.”

Sherlock seemed genuinely surprised to be asked, so much so that he was left speechless for the moment. Greg, on the other hand, was genuinely surprised that Sherlock Holmes could be surprised by a simple, “do you want to come to the pub.”

Finally, Sherlock managed, probably trying to buy himself some time. “I hate football.” 

Greg held back a snort. “Yeah. Of course you do.” 

When Greg thought about it a second time, paying special attention to all the times he’d known Sherlock to not respond to everyday situations like an average bloke, perhaps it was not so surprising, after all. 

Sherlock said, moving to follow him out of the room, “I suppose we can still work on my best man’s speech at the pub.” 

Greg whipped his head around and opened his mouth to tell Sherlock exactly what he thought about that plan. He had the sinking feeling in his gut that in order for Sherlock’s _best man’s speech_ (Christ’s sake) to be fit for an audience that...actually, Greg wasn’t even going to call them normal—just, not acclimated to Sherlock—was a monumental task to be done over not one, but several pints. 

But Sherlock seemed to have anticipated Greg’s misgivings, because he held up his hands. He added, “Greg, you know I wouldn’t ask for help unless I needed help. I hate asking for help.” Sherlock made a face. 

Greg had to admit that the other man had a point. Still, he didn’t like being caught out as a one-trick pony himself, as much as he felt smug about getting Sherlock to use his name several times in a row. “That’s not going to work every time, you know. In fact, I can hear wheels grinding to a halt.” 

Sherlock sighed and stuck his hands into his pockets. “Pint’s on me? Plural, if it comes to it.” He struck a balanced tone. Somewhere just between put out and hopeful. 

Greg couldn’t help but smile, but he turned away just in time, so Sherlock couldn’t see. “That’s more like it. Let’s go.” 

Clearly something had changed between them, and Greg couldn’t tell whether it was a good thing. But if Sherlock was starting them off on the right foot (for once) by buying him a pint or two, then maybe things weren’t going to be so terrible after all.


End file.
